CYCLE OF THE SERPENT
by B0LER0
Summary: A boy named after a hero. A centaur. A red-haired girl. An ill-fated novelist's grandson. A legend's bloodline. Forty seven years after the Triumph of the Order, a new generation attends Hogwarts, and an evil returns to plunder the land.
1. Default Chapter

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PROLOGUE

Alfermus Calfii rummaged through the submissions before his desk. Countless headings, both grand and mundane, streaked past his eyes like blurring visions by the roadside on that lone automobile ride he experienced many, many years ago. He scurried through the articles with the precision of a hawk waiting for a worthwhile prey. 

Having been the editor-in-chief of the Daily Prophet for close to two decades now, Alfermus, or Alf to his colleagues, glided through the hopeful pieces with the efficacy of a grizzled veteran, his 52 year old fingers perfected by this daily routine. Oh yes, he missed a day or two in all of his tenure, brought about by the failed attempts of the Integrationalists to burn down the Timeline Towers wherein the Prophet was housed. But he prides himself as never being remiss with his editorial duties. And this day was no exception.

The titles in bold were an amalgam of fancies. "Ministry Intensifies Northern Defense", said one, which he dismissed as boring, but compulsory. "Collector Pays 17 Million Galleons for Lockhart's Year of the Yeti", said another, which he admitted might find a place in the Obnoxious Oddities section in page 43. "Mysterious Plague Haunts Bulgaria", read a line, which he thought would look good on the Forecast of the Farlands section. "Quidditch Hall of Famer, Kelmare, Dead at 72", mourned another, which he decided should necessitate an Obituaries page for the next day, or, at the very least, the Sports page's prime story.

Alfermus lived and fed off news with every breath he took, so much so that his conscience has become immune to its tragedies and terror. It did not matter when a headline was happening before his very eyes, threatening his very life and limb. For him, such events were but passing tales that would soon be encapsulated in words that will be published through his stolid guidance. He had become numb with reality, a small price to pay for the stature he was given, so he believed. What are feelings, after all, compared to being the driving force of the centuries-old chronicler of the magical world's lore?

He continued his mechanical deliberation of the submitted reports, setting aside those worthy for publication and rejecting those which are not, all with the automated motion of indifference. 

He plowed and furrowed and dug…

Until a report yanked him from his years of emotionless stupor! His eyes widened, his lips paralyzed with seeming horror! It was untitled, but Alfermus had mastered the art of skimming, and what he did skim did not bid well. The words were simple, the exposition straightforward, but the end reeked with subtle terror, the kind whose vagueness conveyed a fear that creeps to the very heart of those who remember.

He read the report, slowly this time.

__

"Grand Seer Colin Creevey, one of the last pillars of the Year of the Turning, died on Tuesday, August 25, 2044, after years of battling Trincomyta's Disease. Master Creevey was given the Ministry's Medallion of Valor in 1998 and was appointed the rank of Grand Seer in 2010 when his visions have saved the Magical World from countless disasters from several fronts. Famous for his uncanny ability to capture with his photographs the beauty of reality oftentimes overlooked, Master Creevey was likewise famous for his gift of divination which became manifest immediately after the Triumph of the Order. As Grand Seer, he was one of the Ministry's most trusted counselors and a member of the high-ranking Tribe of Thirty.

"Master Creevey was the first to predict, with accuracy, the rise of the Integrationalists, the Famine of 2020, and the Great Negation of 2033. His foreknowledge of tribulations made the trials conquerable, and his visions of decay made the mourning easier to bear. Master Creevey's gift of foresight was so legendary that he even predicted the exact day of his death.

"It is a pity that Master Creevey suffered in a delusional state until his final breath, a symptom common with Trincomyta patients. His last act, as reported, was asking for a quill and a paper, and writing but a single word before his life expired. In an almost unintelligible manner, Master Creevey was reported to have scribbled the word 'RIDDLE', immediately preceding his death."

And a whirlwind of memories flooded Alfermus' mind. Of those years as a junior scribe when he dug up anything and everything that was written about the Year of the Turning and the Triumph of the Order. Of those tea sessions he spent with Aberforth Dumbledore during the latter's last days, a privilege afforded by his family's ties. Of the dreams he nurtured of writing the most comprehensive book about the heroic deeds of the boy who lived and the vile ways of he who cannot be named. And he knew, as only a few people could possibly know, what Grand Seer Creevey was trying to say.

The Phoenix failed, and the stench of death was upon them all. 


	2. CHAPTER 1: The Gathering

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CHAPTER I. THE GATHERING

It was a day like none other.

For Gryffindor Solomon, this was the day before he would depart to fulfill his destiny. By the next day, Gryffindor would be boarding the train that ferried great wizards from the past to the grandest academy of them all, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. And once he steps inside the famed institution, he would march towards the Sorting Hat and lay claim to the fate that awaited him. He would be sorted to the honorable house of Gryffindor, for which his proud parents have named him, and from then on, he would commence his journey to be the best, if not one of the best, wizard that has ever been molded in honor of Godric Gryffindor.

"I want to be an Auror," said Gryffindor that morning, fresh from bed and striking a gallant pose before the mirror. He stroked his long, wavy hair and gave his reflection an arrogant smirk, as his other hand pointed to the mirror with a confident approval. He was quite thin compared to other eleven year-olds, but that did not stop him from indulging in that morn's dreams of grandeur.

"Griffy, breakfast is ready," cried his mother from downstairs.

"I'm coming," Gryffindor shouted back, as he rushed to pick up his slenderly designed glasses from the table. It's not the he had poor vision, his near-sightedness have been cured by Cassandra's talisman which his father brought back from Greece when Gryffindor was five. But his spectacles were his lucky charm, so he thought. Without them, he felt dumb and less than ordinary.

Hurrying to the dining table, he was gladdened by what his mother had prepared for breakfast. Elven Pot Roasted Beef (so named after its recipe which was said to be of legendary origin) and Mayan Muffins. _Surely, these weren't everyday offerings_, he surmised.

His father was seated at the table with his mother. Gryffindor joined them, as his father set aside the book he was reading.

"You know what, son," his father started with a warm smile, "you're not the only member of this family who would set out for a new world tomorrow".

"How come dad?" Gryffindor answered, a bit perplexed.

"Well, I have been assigned by the Company to the Japanese office," his father said, "it seems that there's a resurgence of supernatural activities in the Nagano area that needs deeper observance."

Gryffindor's father has been working as a head researcher for Bagshot's Reports, Inc., publishers of various monthly journals concerning demography, world studies, and novel magical applications. He's one of the prized employees of that company, and the above standard pay he was being given has assured the Solomon family a luxurious life. 

"That sounds exciting dad!" said Gryffindor.

"It is," added his father, "but I'm worried about your mother over here, she might get lonely and all considering both the men dearest to her would be away from home".

"Don't worry dad, I'll write to mom as often as I could, and I'll write to you as well," Gryffindor pledged.

"That's my boy!" exclaimed his father, genuinely pleased.

"Oh Griffy," his mother added, sharing his father's sentiments.

"By Gryffindor's sacred honor, I promise to let you know how I'm doing as much as I could!" he said, beaming with confidence.

"Make us proud, lad," retorted his father, as he took his first bite of the day.

The sun's rays touched the window, and illuminated their breakfast table. The Solomon family ate with satisfied smiles and nurtured anticipation for the scent of promises the succeeding chapters of their lives were teasing. It's a good start for a good day, when the tears of parting take a backseat to the joys of seizing tomorrow's bounties. An ocean of wondrous possibilities was before them, and Gryffindor was at the helm.

ooo000ooo

It was a day like none other.

For Rebecca Weasley, this was the day before she would join some of her cousins as well as her two brothers at Hogwarts. Her pony-tailed red hair swayed from side to side, as she merrily hopped along the busy streets of Diagon Alley. She was accompanied by her three female cousins, Polaris, Vega and Thubian, together with their mother and Rebecca's aunt, Libra. 

Polaris, Vega and Thubian were triplets, and incoming first year students at Hogwarts, just like Rebecca. Though the girls shared some similar features, they hardly resembled each other. Polaris, the acknowledged first born, was a healthy young lass with short hair. She wa quite temperamental, as she would easily get irritated with, among other things, her sisters' perceived obnoxiousness. Vega, on the other hand, was slim and pretty, and very feminine. She had curly, long hair, the soft edges of which reflected light with a tinge of beautiful orange. She was perky and friendly, and would never run out of things to say. So many times before, her curiosity had caused a world of trouble for the sisters, much to their parents' shame and Polaris' hatred. Thubian was decidedly different. Shy and silent, she hardly concerned herself with active affairs, save for adventures with her sisters which she was forced to join by association, a thought she surrendered to with a sigh. She was quite gangly, with long, perpetually fixed hair, not as straight as Polaris', but not as curly as Vega's. She wore glasses to compensate for her vision that suffered due to her preference of retreating to the warm refuge of books ever since she learned how to read.

Among the triplets, Rebecca felt closest to Thubian. Perhaps it wa because of their shared fondness for books, or maybe their choice of reclusion. Rebecca, being the only girl among her siblings, never really had the opportunity to open up to her brothers. She would choose to spend her time dreaming of the things she read, or doing household chores like cleaning their home or cooking for her family. Her mother died when she was two, and she has but a vague recollection of how her mother was. But based on her father's story, her mother was a picture of warm beauty, a sight that was enough to console the saddest of hearts. Her father loved her mother dearly, Rebecca believed. He talked about her with longing, often recounting tales of how he fell in love with her and the many times he fell in love with her all over again. 

"Let's go get some wands first!" Vega shouted with glee.

"Stupid, the wand shop is still far," replied Polaris, irked at her sister's lack of foresight, "let's get the things we need along the way".

"But wands are important," Vega said with a frown, "how can we cast spells if we don't have the right kind of wand?"

"And how, pray tell, could you use a wand without knowing any spells?" Polaris asked. "Let's visit the bookstore first, it's just right around the corner".

Vega sighed. She always knew the mandates of Polaris' decisions, a privilege of being born first, she thought. Yet she still tried by feigning a tantrum.

"Now, now, luvs," their mother interjected, "no need to argue. Mommy has a list and based on her list, we'll visit the _Flourish and Blotts_ bookstore first".

Polaris' eyes brightened while Vega's face painted disappointment. Thubian, silent as she was, managed to express a slight smile. Polaris ran towards the direction of the bookstore, tugging Libra's hand, as her sisters were forced to keep up with the pace. Rebecca was lagging behind, so she started to walk faster. 

This was Rebecca's third trip to Diagon Alley. The first time, three years ago, was when she accompanied her Dad and her brother Relfin to buy what the latter needed for Hogwarts. When it was Ramsey's time a year ago, they did the same thing. Nonetheless, Rebecca was still awed by the various fancies that this shopping center offered. She passed by stores with odd names _like Kweeki's Cauldron Creations_, _Banjo's Bag of Bargains_, _Prypine's Priceless Picture Gallery_, and _Carnore's Captivating Capes_. But one shop that caught Rebecca's undivided interest was _Samuel's Sports Station_ where a large number of boys huddled. Rebecca decided to check what the fuss was all about. Amid the throng of young boys and silent murmurs and gasps, she heard things that answered her curiosity and plunged her interests to unsalvageable degrees.

"By Dumbledore's beard, it's the Firestar Version 2.0!" cried a boy with a shrill of excitement.

"This will beat the Nimbus Vintage releases by a mile!" shouted another, with equal respect.

"That's the same broom that David Chivalry is using," said another, referring to the Quidditch Cup's recent most valuable player.

She may be a girl, but Rebecca knows more about Quidditch than most boys, so she was compelled to interject, "Actually, David Chivalry is using a Version 1.0 modified to suit his liking".

Everyone looked at the direction where the female voice came from. When they saw a little girl with red hair in a Sunday dress, they laughed and dismissed her as a know-it-all.

"It's true," defended Rebecca, "don't you guys read Quidditch Quarterly?".

She spoke to no avail, as the boys continued with their "oohs" and "ahhs" over the new broomstick model. This angered Rebecca, but before she could say another word, someone spoke.

"Actually, David Chivalry is using a Version 1.5," said a reserved voice behind Rebecca, which was clearly a boy's.

Rebecca turned around to look at the lad who spoke such words. She was surprised to find an average sized boy, around her age, with messy hair, and whose bangs cut across his left eye. He was shyly smiling at her, which Rebecca took as quite wryly, a frail attempt of ridiculing her, she thought.

"Hi, my name's Henry," said the boy.

"And that is none of my concern," answered Rebecca, trying to act haughty before this lad who just tried to humiliate her. "What did you just say? Version 1.5? There's no such thing!"

"Well, you will never know because it was never released," he uttered, still with a shy smile. "It was a prototype model that they thought was too fast for a commercial release, so they modified its maximum speed for the public's safety. That's why we have that Version 2.0".

"And how did you know this?" Rebecca asked sarcastically, as she never tried to conceal her obvious doubts.

"I…I can't tell you that," Henry answered, as he bowed his head.

"Ha! You claim something but you don't want to say where it came from?" Rebecca said, "you're a poor liar!".

"But I'm not lying, honest," Henry pleaded.

"Suit yourself," Rebecca said with a satisfied smirk, "now if you'll please excuse me, I've got some shopping to do".

"For Hogwarts?" the boy asked. "Are you attending Hogwarts too? First year?"

Rebecca paused for a while, realizing that this pretentious boy named Henry might be going to Hogwarts as well, and they might belong in the same batch, and worse, they might get sorted into the same house.

"Ahhhh….uhmmm….no, I'm not going to Hogwarts. I'm too young for Hogwarts," she finally said.

"Oh, okay, see you in the next few years, I suppose," Henry answered as he turned around and slowly walked away.

What a queer boy, Rebecca thought. With that impression, she jogged towards the direction of the bookstore where her cousins and her aunt have proceeded.

The sun was dawning on this day of days, and soon, evening will claim the sky. And various children from all over the land will find it hard to sleep that night, in anticipation of their first day at Hogwarts. It is the first step in consummating their dreams. New friends will be made, as well as some enmities. New things will be learned, as new challenges await. It will be a period of delightful possibilities and dangerous uncertainties. But in this era of light, the things that are to unfold shall be met with eagerness and glee. And for Rebecca Weasley, no one can take away the promises of tomorrow.

ooo000ooo

It was a day like none other.

And at this day's twilight, some thirty kilometers west of Hogwarts, a hooded boy was walking barefooted on the rocky road of Endington's Pass. Clothed in black cloak, made gray by accumulated dust, this boy was braving the emerging cold of the night. His head was bowed, as he painstakingly watched every single step he took towards the famed school. Neither a frown nor a smile can be seen from his face. Rather, there was an unmistakable resolve to reach his desired destination.

How long has he walked, no on can be certain. But judging from the dirty clothes he was wearing, and the blisters on his feet and legs, he had trekked a great distance. His smell was so foul that neither flies nor any other insects dared to cross his path.

Along the way he encountered two tall figures, likewise cloaked, but their entire bodies were covered, unlike his. The air fled before them, making a screaming sound with the sudden parting. A pair of lost souls. Dream devourers. Nightmare Wraiths. Dementors as they are known to most. Their very sight can drive a man insane with fear. These vile creatures, once known to be the hounds of Azkaban, that impregnable prison for wizards who have deviated from what is right, have scattered across the world after the Great Negation. Free from the magic that have kept them under control for so long, they have wandered the land aimlessly. Confused or hungry for purpose, no one will ever know. Fortunately for the populace, both of wizards and Muggles, the Dementors who have escaped preferred the solitude of the night and have contented themselves to seek refuge in murky places during the day. From time to time, though, some hapless traveler encounters them, and in but a few seconds, he would know why these cloaked wraiths are justly named.

The two Dementors eyed the boy, hissing some terrifying sound that would have given an ordinary man a lifetime of tortured dreams.

But this boy, with a body frail and sickly, just looked at them, emotionless, and the Dementors bowed and made way for him. He slowly walked between them, with impoverished royalty like a vagabond king who was indifferent of his misguided flock.

And when the boy passed them by, the Dementors walked the other way, as if they were reminded of the shelter they sought and the relief they were afforded.

The boy reached the end of the road. He looked up to see what seemed to be an endless growth of trees. The woods. The Forgotten Forests, whose perpetual labyrinth neither man-made contraptions nor magic have ever breached. This was the school's frontier of protection. And it could only mean one thing.

Hogwarts was near, and by this same time tomorrow, he would stand before its gates. 

And for the first time during his mysterious journey, and most probably, for the first time in his life, the boy smiled.


	3. CHAPTER 2: THE TRAIN RIDE DESTINY'S CHI...

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CHAPTER 2. THE TRAIN RIDE. DESTINY'S CHILD. DESTINY'S CHOICE.

The train station was bustling with people the following day. Businessmen, families, lovers, friends… everyone seemed to be at the train station on Sundays. And Gryffindor Solomon found himself mixing it up with the crowd. Accompanied by his parents: a father who was pushing a cart filled with baggage and a mother who was trying so hard to keep her tears from falling, Gryffindor braved the mass of humanity on the way to Platforms 9 and 10. It seemed he was racing against an invisible foe, his excitement pumping his adrenaline and making him push forward against the crowd.

"Slow down son," his father finally said, "your mom and I can't keep up with you."

"But dad, the train leaves in ten minutes," Gryffindor answered without looking back to his parents who were getting left behind.

His pace paid off. He reached Platform 9 a few seconds later, with his parents trudging at his wake. _Whew, _with relief he silently sighed, _the day of reckoning has arrived!_ For many years in this very station, Gryffindor had envied those who were on their way to Hogwarts. Students who lined up to rush against a seemingly rock solid pillar between this Platform 9 and the next, only to disappear upon collision and re-emerge in a secret station known to the wizard world as Platform 9 ¾. This station has always been a source of pride for the magic community. A platform within a platform, a station within a station, a magical place right under the muggles' nose, and yet, they have never had a clue of its existence. 

Gryffindor was met by a long line of children his age who were waiting for their turn to run through the wall between Platform 9 and 10. They were a mixed lot, Gryffindor thought. Some looked normal. Others looked quite strange. A number of them were accompanied by their loved ones. They were exchanging farewells. Some with tears, and some with proud smiles. This made him seek his parents' faces, all of a sudden curious on how they were taking his impending departure. He turned around and on the side of an iron bench stood his folks. His father was a picture of fulfillment. His son was going to Hogwarts to write his own history in the magic world. His mother has failed to contain her tears, as she wept with no shame, occasionally leaning her head on his father's burly chest, looking for comfort and reassurance. It was then when Gryffindor realized that farewells weren't all harbingers of new beginnings, for there were things so dear that certainly had to give way.

He smiled at them, a final smile until the next summer. And with his smile came a silent promise that he would do his best with his every endeavor and that he would soon come home to them, a better son and someone true to the name they have given. He turned to face the wall. It was his turn to step into the hidden station. He firmly held the handle of his cart and ran like he never ran before. 

And out the other side he came with full speed, his dash broken by a boy who stood in awe at the other end. They both came crashing down to the floor, their things fell and scattered all over. They made quite a noise that the other students took notice. Realizing the amusing accident, the students shrugged off the incident with laughter, as they continued in boarding the train. 

"What in a bludger's thump are you doing standing around like that?" Gryffindor asked furiously, as he fixed his glasses.

"Oh, I'm very sorry, little sir," said the boy as he picked himself up. He was a tall and skinny lad, almost twice Gryffindor's height. His hair was so thin and scarcely spaced that he seemed to be bald. He offered Gryffindor a hand.

"Shivering snitches! We made quite a scene," said Gryffindor, as he picked himself up, refusing the gangly boy's help, "you should be more careful next time."

"I'm so sorry, little sir, it was just that I was left amazed seeing the Hogwarts Express for the very first time," the tall boy said as he helped Gryffindor in picking up his things.

"I guess that's understandable," answered Gryffindor, taking a peek at the marvelous sight of the legendary train. He understood why the other boy was paralyzed with fascination.

Hogwarts Express, a century and a half old, ferried students to Hogwarts on the first day of every September without fail. A century and a half old and not once did it need the minutest repair. That's how sturdy the train was. It shined with the fieriness of polished black, and Gryffindor imagined how sleek and elegant it would look when it was running in full steam, breaking the wind like a speeding bullet of the blackest armor. 

"By the way, my name is Ontario Wood, little sir," the tall boy interrupted, extending his big but slender hands.

__

Wood? What an appropriate name, Gryffindor thought. _He's like a bamboo to be exact, tall, skinny and pitiably fragile-looking. _Such idea prompted him to repress an amused smile.

"Ahhh…errrrr….my name is Gryffindor, Gryffindor Solomon," he finally said.

Just before he could shake Ontario's hand, Hogwarts Express sounded its loud whistle of released steam. It was preparing to depart! And they are the only ones who have yet to board the train! They moved with swiftest motion they could muster, Ontario a pathetic sight with his lanky frame. They never managed to arrange their things, as they used all their available limbs to carry them and rush for the door. 

They made it just in time, for as soon as they boarded the Express, the doors closed and the train started to chug in an ascending motion that instantly made the duo feel sick, seemingly splattering their intestines all over the floor.

As soon as they recovered a little of their senses, they realized something they never thought was possible.

Hogwarts Express was flying.

ooo000ooo

Rebecca tried to contain her nervousness. It as the very first time her body left the ground for more than a second. Sure, she was fascinated with Quidditch and the trendiest broomsticks, but that didn't have to mean that she was obliged to live the objects of her fancies. Truth is, she was afraid of heights. Not the fear that drives one's mind away, but rather a discomforting fear that takes her out of her proper sensibilities. The fact that her cousins occupied another compartment complicated the matter. She was sitting by the window, as London shrank to the size of a map and the whitest clouds drowned the sky like a cotton blanket. 

In front of her was a total stranger. A boy. His eyes were closed as if he was meditating. Or was he sleeping? Probably, he just kept his eyes closed because he was afraid of the flight just like her. Nevertheless, this gave Rebecca the chance to observe him. He looked very dignified, he must've come from a reputable family, she thought. His hair was neatly short. His eyes, though closed, looked very serious. He didn't seem to be type who smiles a lot. He doesn't look friendly as well.

A small turbulence disrupted the train's aviation. Rebecca held the edge of her couch tightly, slipping a little from her desire not to show the slightest trace of fear. When the turbulence ceased, she noticed something fall from the boy's bag, which was placed beside his seat. The boy still had his eyes closed, unmoved by the disruption.

Rebecca looked at the object that fell. It was a talisman of rusty gold. Was it magical, she wondered? Or was it merely a family crest, a memento so he would not forget? It was a strange talisman. It wasn't adorned with the usual marking of Latin words. Rather, a simple symbol was embossed on it. A bolt of lightning. 

She decided to put it back beside its owner. She stood and bent over to pick it up. The talisman was warm, which was quite unusual considering it was cold in the altitude they were in.

"Stealing is a crime," the boy suddenly said without opening his eyes, to Rebecca's surprise. 

"W-what? Ah, er, you've got it all wrong, I wasn't trying to stea-," Rebecca started to reason, but was abruptly cut short when the boy finally opened his eyes devoid of warmth.

"And meddling with something that is not yours is far from noble," he coldly said.

Rebecca did not know whether she'll feel embarrassed or angered by what just transpired. She grudgingly placed the talisman on top of the boy's bag and returned to her seat. She eyed the boy with silent fury, as the boy gave him an intensely blank stare. His look felt more uncomfortable than her fear of heights, that Rebecca allowed her eyes to roam around, trying to convey her disgust over his accusations. She managed to see the nameplate on the chest pocket of the boy's folded-up robe beside his bag. The boy's name was Harry. Harry Timberfolk.

"Mr. Timberfolk," she finally said, "if I didn't pick up your medallion, further atmospheric disturbances would have plodded it down the compartment beyond your knowing presence," she condescendingly continued.

"Ms. Weasley, it might be for your better information to know that the said medallion is magical, and it always, always, comes back to the person who owns it," Harry said.

Rebecca was aghast. How did he know her name? She almost smacked her head for her perceived stupidity when she realized that her own nameplate was displayed on her robe, which hung near the window.

"Are you always that haughty?" she asked, not knowing nor thinking what else to say.

"Only when called for," was his unfriendly reply.

This Harry Timberfolk was so irritating, Rebecca thought. Whatever name his family had made for themselves would surely be lost with his arrogant ways, she concluded for certain.

"You seem to be the honest type," she sarcastically said, thinking that perhaps his misguided sense of nobility would be his undoing. "What's the insignia on your medallion supposed to mean?" she asked.

"It's…." he said, pausing after the word. He broke his stare and started to look outside the window.

"It's?" Rebecca asked, partly curious and partly satisfied believing that she had pushed the arrogant boy to a corner.

"It's none of your business," he answered a strange mixture of indifference and annoyance.

Rebecca was fuming mad, and was trying her best to remain civil. Luckily, she consoled herself with the fact that since Hogwarts Express had taken to the skies, such would certainly make the trip much shorter. Every second with Harry Timberfolk was a century of exasperating uneasiness. She can't stand him, and at that point, she had no fonder wish than to alight from the train.

But something played in Rebecca's mind. That insignia. That lightning bolt. Surely, she had read or heard something about it before. Something legendary which she can't seem to remember. Was it from a Daily Prophet article? Or a history book? Or from a tale told over and over to children and adults alike? 

Or was it from an unwanted rumor that unreasonably festered into an ill-advised fact? If such were the case, then that fact was an ugly lad pitifully named Harry Timberfolk, she mischievously thought. 

Rebecca tried to stifle a smile the rest of the journey.

ooo000ooo

The train landed shortly before noon. Busy young bodies alighted from the Express, excited about the wonders that awaited them. A jumble of students they were, from first year to seventh. The neophytes were the most anxious. It will be their first year at Hogwarts after all.

Polaris, Vega and Thubian Weasley met Rebecca near the door of the eighth compartment, giggling and exchanging smiles as well as stories about their first flying locomotive ride and the myriad characters they met. It seemed like they haven't seen each other for ages, when in fact, they have been apart for but two hours.

"Oh my, oh my, oh my," Vega deliriously shouted. "Wasn't it a wonderful treat! We were flying! We were so near the clouds! They looked like Cloud Factory's cotton candies!"

"Stupid," Polaris said, almost as if on cue. "Cloud Factory cotton candies are really made out of clouds."

"If you say so, Miss Smarty Polly," Vega said with a sigh. "By the way Rebecca, have you heard of the gossip?"

"What gossip?" Rebecca asked.

"That Harry Porter's grandson is attending Hogwarts with us!" Vega exclaimed.

"Harry POTTER!" Polaris corrected. "Don't you know your history?"

"Oopsie, mistake is moi," Vega quipped.

"Uhm…who is Harry Potter?" Rebecca asked, a little lost while still recovering her bearings from the unpleasant trip.

"Reeeeebeeeeeeeecccccaaaaaaaaaaa!" Vega shouted, shocked about her cousin's ignorance. "Harry Potter is like a hero! He slew dragons and ate Dark Eaters for breakfast! He had the strength of a thousand men and was so smart that he knew a million difficult spells by heart!"

"That's right," Polaris added, one of the rare times she would agree with her sibling, "he's so dashing and gorgeous, they say! What's best, he was a good friend of our grandpa and grandma! They attended Hogwarts together!"

"And you know what that means right?" Vega gleefully asked.

"What?" Rebecca asked back, still a bit lost.

"That means young Mr. Potter and us could be good friends as well, just like how our grandparents were!" Vega answered, never losing her enthusiasm.

__

Harry Potter. Slowly, Rebecca was starting to remember. His name commanded respect and amazement from most parts of the magic world. She remembered a vintage broomstick that was actually named after him, The Harry Potter Edge 2000-2007. He was a legend, his exploits adorned many children's books and conjured fantastic tales of bravery and discipline. He was mentioned many times in Under School, as being the Herald of the Age of Light.

"So…" Rebecca began to ask, "if he was a hero and he was our grandparents' friend, then does that mean that he's also partly responsible for the Triumph of the Order?"

"Actually," Thubian, who was silent all this time, started to speak before her sisters could utter a word, "He was PRIMARILY responsible for the Triumph of the Order. He was the one chosen by the Phoenix and he was the last bearer of Godric Gryffindor's fabled sword."

"Baloney!" Polaris shouted. "That's not what grandpa said! Grandpa said that he was the wielder of Gryffindor's sword and it was by his hands that the dark lord was banished!"

"Grandpa also said that he had to ward off every girl at Hogwarts so that he could focus on his studies," Thubian replied, "which, upon a sincere perusal is remotely possible."

Polaris was about to respond, but she realized that she had nothing in mind to refute Thubian's words.

"Anyway," Rebecca interrupted to break the building tension between the sisters, a role she was already accustomed to, "this Harry Potter, didn't he have a distinguishing mark that made people aware of whom he was?"

"Yes," Thubian answered, "a scar on his forehead, the shape of lightning."

"So was that like a pass he bore to entitle him to discounts at Diagon Alley?" Rebecca humorously asked. "Does he go on saying 'Hi, look at my scar, give me a loaf of pepper pretzels with that' while protruding his forehead for everyone to see?" she added, mimicking a manly voice while demonstrating.

The girls giggled once more and laughed at Rebecca's anecdote. They laughed and laughed and laughed, unmindful of the students who were slowly forming a mass of young humanity in the end station of Hogwarts Express' trail. Amid their laughter, Rebecca caught a glimpse of someone who was alighting the train. It was the annoying boy who sat before her during the trip, who accused her of being a thief, and treated her like a disposable child who knew nothing at all. He was the one named Harry Timberfolk. The boy who had the medallion with a lightning bolt insignia.

__

Lightning bolt.

Harry.

Grandson.

Rebecca's face turned pale as her mouth drooped while watching the boy, as dignified as she always perceived him to be, descending the steps of the eighth compartment, with a kind of class that belied his age. He looked regal with his robes on, yet remained as arrogant as he was during the ride. Her cousins ceased their laughter as they noticed her strange disposition. They worriedly asked her what's wrong, but Rebecca could not hear them. She was still inundated with disbelief that she actually talked to Harry Potter's grandson. She actually talked to Harry Potter's grandson!

What her cousins failed to achieve, a stranger's tap on her shoulder succeeded in claiming. She was awakened from her star-struck trance, and returned to reality. She turned her face to see the person who lightly rapped her from her daze. 

And her face turned paler, albeit remaining in a conscious state of shock this time.

It was Henry, the queer boy from the broomstick store! He was smiling at her, not shyly this time, while carrying his bags.

"You're such a poor liar," the boy gaily said.

And Rebecca could only answer with a distorted smile of her own.

ooo000ooo

Shortly upon descending from the train, Gryffindor and Ontario found themselves scurrying to fix their things disorganized by their accident-marred meeting and their race to catch the train. Words like "I think this is yours" and "give me that" dominated their discussion as they concerned themselves with checking if all their belongings were present. They were unmindful of the throng of students that gathered around them. They had suffered much humiliation today that they had no more pride to spare. 

After they made themselves sure that everything was properly organized, they both heaved a sigh of relief. Now, nothing could stop them from attending their first day at Hogwarts, they mused.

An old man, who looked healthy for his age, approached the students. He was being led by a sickly dog who was guiding the way for him through a thin chain attached to its collar. The man wore a funny looking green hat, like that of a Leprechaun's, Gryffindor thought. Not that he has seen a Leprechaun, but he was familiar with them through the illustrations in the Children's Compendium of Fantastic Fables. The old man had a crooked nose and was gamely smiling. As he got closer, Gryffindor, as well as most of the students, realized why the dog was faithfully leading him. He was blind.

"First Year Students, follow me laddies and lasses!" he commandingly shouted without losing his smile.

And so the first year students gathered in a makeshift line and started marching with the old man towards what looked like a pier.

"You see the waters now, eh?" the old man said. "I would too, if I could see," he added with a laugh, but no one laughed with him. "We will ride some boats. Ten students per boat. Don't dare overload, least 'ye be sunk in the waters and be swallowed by tiger squids and lake trolls."

There were exhaled breaths of horror from some of the students, but Gryffindor remained steadfast. _Just follow the instructions, _he reminded himself, _and everything will turn out well._

As soon as the students rode them, the boats magically moved even when no one was rowing. The journey to Hogwarts was nearing its end. The murky waters still managed to reflect the clear blue sky. It was a funny thought for Gryffindor. Despite the blackish color of the lake, filled with foul creatures and the likes, it still captured upon its surface the beauty of something as pure as the noontime heavens. He could have spent the entire day musing on the paradox that was presented, but he tried to dismiss such thought with the prospect of finally stepping into the hallowed halls of Hogwarts.

But as much as he tried, the thought clung to him the entire ride.


	4. CHAPTER 3 Sorted United Divided

****

CHAPTER 3. SORTED. UNITED. DIVIDED.

It used to be a well-mannered hat.

But the ails of old age were not confined in the realm of mortals, it seemed, for the Sorting Hat, one of Hogwarts' most revered treasures, have developed a nasty temper as of late. For many years, the Sorting Hat had scrawled the first lines by which a wizard's personal history was written. By its deformed mouth, forced out of a tear on its brim, were said the words that would welcome the students to Hogwarts as well as define their destinies to come.

It was named the Sorting Hat because it did just that. It sorted the novices of magic into the four distinct houses that comprised Hogwarts. The noble house of Gryffindor, named after Godric Gryffindor, the hat's original owner, whose bravery and nobility were well known across the land. The honorable house of Hufflepuff, named after Helga Hufflepuff, whose sense of loyalty and perseverance were renowned and admired throughout the ages. The respected house of Ravenclaw, named after Rowena Ravenclaw, whose discipline and thirst for knowledge were of no equal. And the esteemed house of Slytherin, named after Salazar Slytherin, whose ambitious and cunning ways have become the fabrics of great tales.

Every year, on the first day of September, the Sorting Hat is called on to decide the respective houses where the new students rightfully belong. It used to look forward to this day, the only day the entire year when it was unearthed to fulfill a task most important. But as of recent years, the Sorting Hat showed signs of ill temperament. It was beginning to hate the function for which it was bewitched. _A laborious task for something ages old_, it thought, _whatever happened to caring for the elderly?_ And then there was the matter of the new Head Master whom the Sorting Hat so despised…

So, gone were the days when it would sing the grandest songs of legendary yore and the venerated primacy of its deeds. Instead, it would now utter unnecessary comments and think aloud what it thought of the students who were wearing on their head its patch-filled, tattered and untidy body. This made the work more enjoyable for the Sorting Hat these days, a novel twist to a routine that had become boring after more than a thousand years. 

From where it sat in an old, wooden three-legged stool it heard the Great Hall's doors as they opened. Upper year students began to fill up the room, sitting on their respective houses' long tables. _Ahhhhhh, the time has come, _it thought. In a matter of minutes, the new students would enter to be sorted. 

But the Sorting Hat felt something strange this day, a surprising chill, which caressed its body of worn leather. There have been countless times when a breeze of cold air would manage its way into the Great Hall and loiter in its domain, but this particular chill was different. It was the first one it ever felt, when the Sorting Hat was never bewitched with the sense of feeling.

ooo000ooo

After the relatively peaceful boat ride, marred only by the appearance of a merfolk who decided to pop out its curious head from the waters, which some of the students found quite harrowing, the first year children arrived at the grounds of the fabled School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Most of them were mesmerized by the sheer size and sense of mysticism and majesty that Hogwarts presented. Small murmurs were unavoidable, as the children exchanged eager whispers of fascination and awe.

And walking side by side were Gryffindor and Ontario, an odd pair, what with the latter's lanky frame. They looked at the castle before them with wide, wide eyes, overwhelmed by its splendor and the fact that they, young as they were, would be part of its tradition.

"Hogwarts at last", Gryffindor said, trying to solicit a similar enthusiasm from the generally reserved Ontario.

But Ontario did not reply. He was staring at the direction that yanked most of the students' attention. Disturbed by Ontario's silence, Gryffindor looked at him only to be directed to where the latter's eyes, as well as the eyes of almost all the children, were now fixated.

Beside the giant door stood a cloaked young boy, with his wounded and dirty feet, as well as his face from the nose down, the only parts of his body exposed. He had his head bowed, indifferent of the excitement exuded by the gathered throng just a few seconds ago. There was something eerily peculiar about the boy, which none of the students can seem to figure out, like a tingle on one's spine for no apparent reason.

There was a minute of silence, as the students just looked at the boy. Perhaps they feared to speak, or maybe, they just didn't know what to say. Suddenly, a young lad with wavy locks, and who was relatively shorter than most of the students, broke out from the crowd to break the uncomfortable stillness.

"Make way, make way", he proudly shouted while parting the huddle. "Leave this for the big boy to handle", he added.

He made his way to the hooded young boy while putting up an act of dusting off his robe. When he reached but a few steps near the strange child, he extended his hand and introduced himself. "Hi. My name is Johnny Lockhart", he said with an ostentatious smile.

The dirty young boy neither said a word nor made the slightest gesture.

Johnny Lockhart, puzzled by the boy's actions, or non-action, and a bit embarrassed by his unsolicited deed's failure to deliver, thought of another approach. _A series of questions perhaps, _he concluded, still with his garish smile, as he stroke his wavy hair of golden hue.

"Maybe you don't speak English", he loudly assumed. "Okay, let's try this again. _Wot ees yowr ne-eym_?" a question he delivered slowly, trying to communicate with the pauperized boy.

The strange boy remained still.

"Hmmmm", Johnny sighed, pausing to contemplate on what to do next. Finally, he let out a tacky laughter. "Oh don't tell me, don't tell me please…you're the grandson of the legendary Harry Potter who is rumored to be attending Hogwarts with us…" he said, as he continued his laughter which triggered the same from some of the crowd behind him.

Gryffindor Solomon's eyes widened upon hearing Lockhart's comment. _Harry Potter's grandson? Attending Hogwarts? _Gryffindor did not know whether he should feel excited or threatened. He wanted to look forward to meeting a legend's bloodline in person. But then, such would be a monkey wrench thrown at his plan to be the best student in the house of Gryffindor. Harry Potter, hailed by many as the hero of the Time of the Turning, was probably the most renowned product of Hogwarts, and the most esteemed alumnus of Godric Grffindor's prominent house. Surely his kin would possess the same qualities, Solomon uttered in silence.

"Show us the scar of legends," Johnny Lockhart mockingly commanded amid the continuing laughter, "show us your family treasure." 

But Johnny's antics were broken by the sound of hooves slowly striking the ground from the forest in the west. Soon, all of the students' attention shifted from the scrawny, unclean boy to the source of the heavy steps approaching.

At first they weren't able to figure out if it was a horse or a big goat. A horse had better posture, some said. But a goat surely doesn't have the distinct majesty of the nearing figure's regal stride. Quite a few claimed he was a man riding a horse, but others argued that its size belied that claim.

Then the figure revealed itself in full visibility, and every one of the students took a step backwards in shock. It was neither a horse nor a giant goat nor a man riding a horse. It was not even a man for that matter. His upper body was that of an unclothed young man, in his teenaged years if one was allowed to roughly estimate, but his physique was molded like a perfect sculpture that brought doubts as to his real age. He had long, messy black hair, and pointed ears that looked Elven in origin. He could've passed off as an elf of mythical recollection, but he had two small horns and a lower body which were clearly that of a horse with the color of blackest night! His eyes looked intense, seeming to know neither joy nor sadness, just restrained passion.

He slowly proceeded to where Johnny and the strange boy were, as the students remained shocked. Johnny was paralyzed where he stood, fear gripped every part of his brittle body.

"Ah…errrr….", he forced himself to say with an equally compelled smile trying to pretend courage, "hi there. You must be a Centaur!"

The Centaur just looked at him with his fiery eyes. He thereafter made a grunting sound and strode his way inside the castle, to everyone's relief.

Johnny Lockhart followed the Centaur with a stare as the latter vanished in the shadows inside the school. Liberated from his fear, Johnny looked at the strange boy who was still standing where he was, as motionless as before, unaffected by everything that transpired. Lockhart then looked at the students who were still reeling from the encounter with the half-man, half-beast. 

"Now that's what we call a _mane_ event", Johnny kidded, as he tried to save face.

ooo000ooo

A train _flight_ across turbulent skies. A boat ride through perilous waters. A strange boy. A Centaur. 

Rebecca Weasley was having an unforgettable day, that she needed no further complications. But as it was, she had to endure a snotty lad's temperaments only to realize that he was the legendary Harry Potter's grandson. Worse, she had the most embarrassing re-acquaintance with an immodest boy whose goal in life was to perpetually ridicule her. And now, as she was marching along the hallway leading to the Great Hall, passing by the framed paintings of headmasters and professors of Hogwarts' venerated past, she had to live with the company of imprudent Henry who was sticking to her like a lichen. She tried to accelerate her pace, but Henry just kept keeping up with her, so she gave up on such idea.

"All I am asking for is your name," said Henry, still with a smile that never ceased since their reunion, much to Rebecca's chagrin.

"If that will make you shut up and leave me in peace, then my name is Rebecca," she finally answered.

"Alright. Thanks Rebecca," the boy said. "But I wouldn't be surprised if you answer by another name during the Sorting Ceremony," Henry concluded with what Rebecca thought was a sneer.

"You are so infuriating," Rebecca retorted. "Didn't it ever occur to you that I do not want to associate myself with the likes of you?"

Before Henry could utter a reply, the marching students came to a halt. They met a dignified lady who was regally dressed. Many of the children inferred that she was a professor, hence, they gave her their warmest smiles as they awaited what she was going to say. Rebecca had the brightest smile of the lot, as she considered the professor's presence a rescue from Henry's shenanigans.

"Good afternoon, first year students," the lady spoke. "Welcome to Hogwarts."

Some of the students wanted to clap their hands, as they felt proud with the words the professor said. They were in Hogwarts, and they were well on their way to becoming the wizards and witches of their dreams. 

"I am Professor Emerashire," the lady continued. "I am the Deputy Headmistress, and the head of Gryffindor House," she added with a warm smile.

Her shiny emerald green robe was a sight to behold. It captivated Rebecca, so much so that she suddenly decided the house where she wanted to belong, an idea she didn't give much thought to before. She wanted to be in Gryffindor, under the guidance of the charismatic lady who welcomed them to the school. In Gryffindor, where all of the Weasleys before her were sorted, with the exception of her Uncle Vernard, and where most of the heroes of the Time of the Turning hailed from. This brought a hopeful smile on Rebecca's face, but such did not last. She realized that wherever she'll get sorted, it would be acceptable, as long as it's not with the pesky young Henry who was following her all the time.

"First year students, form two lines please," Professor Emerashire requested with a kind yet commanding voice. "Follow me," she added, "it is time for the Sorting Ceremony."

ooo000ooo

Gryffindor Solomon has never seen a more magnificent sight his entire life. 

Rows of long tables filled with upper year students welcomed them with beaming smiles as candles burning with bluish flame floated over their heads. It was named the Grand Hall because it was surely large and regal. Long curtains of blue, green, yellow and silver fell from the ceiling to kiss the grass as its silky body caressed the walls. The first year students were walking down an aisle of red carpet, as they followed Professor Emerashire towards the elevated tables in front of the hall, where the faculties were seemingly situated.

"The new Headmaster would like to welcome you personally," professor Emerashire said, "but as of the moment, he is polishing up some business with the Ministry, but he will join us shortly," she assured.

Gryffindor has heard about the news of a new Headmaster who would take over the reign of Hogwarts that very school year. His name has been kept in secrecy among the wizarding community, for fear of possible Integrationalist attacks against him while he was away from Hogwarts. Selecting a Headmaster for the school was not an easy task. Wizards of proven probity, intelligence, commitment and valor were required for anyone who sought the post. The qualifications are more stringent than in selecting a member of the Ministry.

__

Who could be the new Headmaster, Gryffindor asked silently, a thought that completely took a backseat when Professor Emerashire spoke again.

"First year students, you will now be sorted," she said, as she took a dirty looking old hat from a three legged stool. "Your house will be your family while you're at Hogwarts. You will be grouped under one tower and you will attend class together. You will try to win as many house points as you can. At the end of the year, the house with the most house points shall win the House Cup." 

"As I call your name, please step forward and sit on this chair," she continued. "The Sorting Hat will be placed on your head and it will shout the house you belong to."

__

Oh! This is it, Gryffindor thought. It was finally time to claim the fate that awaited him.

The Sorting Hat wiggled while in Emerashire's care. The tear on its brim moved, and to the delight of the first year students, it started to sing…

__

Dreams by the fiery heavens and the night sky

Dreams carried by hope, with glee now flies

To Hogwarts, to Hogwarts, they cry, they cry

Oh dreams, from these children, do not shy

Should you be kings of mortal affairs, I ask?

Would you despise defeat, and crave to win? 

Hear 'ye, hear 'ye, 'tis be my solemn task

For I shall place thee in the house of Slytherin

Or should you try and try, persevere as you live

In the face of hopelessness, you still try with no bluff?

Then accept this decree to you I shall give

For you belong nowhere else but in Hufflepuff

Or will you proceed with the sharpness of the mind's eye

To ponder upon the cure for even the minutest flaw?

Will you use your wit to conquer, maybe even lie?

Then I shall place you in the house of Ravenclaw

Or will you be courageous and daring, never to wither

Even against the stormy darkness beyond the shore?

Then with heroes you will be sorted, so come hither

And join the noble rank of brave Gryffindor

With the mention of the house of his choice, and the house for which he was named, Gryffindor Solomon let out a proud smile. _The noble rank of brave Gryffindor._ Even in between a few seconds, he allowed himself to daydream. 

"Ontario Wood!" Professor Emerashire suddenly shouted.

Ontario looked dumbfounded as he heard his name. He paused for a second, trying to recall what needed to be done. Some whispers from those gathered around him made him recover his senses. He proceeded to the stool and sat on it. Professor Emerashire placed the sordid hat on his bald head.

The hat gave a grunt, and coughed a few times. "Emerashire, if you please, I would like to deliver the sorting through songs," it said. "I want to try something different this year, I hope a poor old hat's wishes would be granted," it continued with a semblance of sorrow.

Professor Emerashire nodded with a smile.

Then the hat began to sing about Ontario in a booming voice for the whole hall to hear…

__

Sitting on his stool, this idiotic lad

Sitting on his head, I be

Oh you think you have it so bad

Wait, just wait, and you will see

Your forefather was a captain 

Of broomstick soldiers and seekers alike

And when comes your time, what a shame

You can't even ride a broom, you tyke!

You will cause so many troubles, yes you will

Not with your attitude, mind you

But with your clumsiness, unwanted and ill

Your house will surely sigh in rue

But wait, oh wait, there is much desire, I see

To prove yourself worthy, despite the things you muff

Then it should be done, and it shall be

From now on, you shall belong to the house of…HUFFLEPUFF!!!

Ontario breathed a sigh of relief, seemingly thankful that the embarrassment was done and over with. There was a collective laughter across the hall as he stood up, while a group of students were clapping, welcoming in unison the newest member of their house.

Gryffindor Solomon has heard tales about the sorting ceremony, but never in his life did he imagine that it would be as humiliating as Ontario's. Nonetheless, he thought that a minute of humiliation would be nothing compared to the things he would learn at Hogwarts.

"Johnny Lockhart!" Emarashire shouted.

The students were now dreading the times when Professor Emerashire was about to call a name. But Lockhart just parted through the crowd with proud smoothness. _Excuse me, excuse me, _he loudly but charmingly said as he made way for himself amidst the multitude of first years. He fixed his robes in the most snobbish of manners as he ascended the stage. Thereafter, he shot a smile at the people that gathered in the hall, and then he took his seat. Emerashire placed the hat on his head. The crowd was silent. They knew his grandfather, Gilderoy Lockhart. They knew about his infamy, though his fall from grace was clouded in mystery. Gilderoy Lockhart's story has gone down in history as either a tragedy or a joke, depending on who was telling it.

The Sorting Hat obliged the anxious silence by beginning its song…

__

Oh the stuff of history so rich

A grandfather of mythical lore

He be a famous, famous witch

Though his books were quite a bore

He slew trolls and befriended some Yetis

Or so said he, but should we believe?

For if lying has a god, then it would be he

Hence for St. Mungo's he did leave

And what of his books, in bargain bins now?

When his fraudulent words make us all sore

But for you, my lad, a different tale fate had avowed

Take your seat now in the house of…GRYFFINDOR!!!

There were cries of shock from the Gryffindor table. They could not believe the ignominy that befell them, having to share a house with Gilderoy Lockhart's grandson. The other tables laughed, with most of the mirthfulness coming from Slytherin. 

Johnny Lockhart, a picture of pride, slowly stood up from the chair, and returned the hat to Emerashire with a wink.

"See you in class, oh dearest head of my house," he said with his patented exaggeration of his self-worth.

"Two points deducted from Gryffindor!" Emerashire shouted. "Students should never show disrespect to their teachers," she continued with a smile of her own.

The Gryffindor table sank their heads in despair as the laughter grew louder. Gryffindor Solomon was fuming mad, his future house having been penalized even before the school year could officially start, because of Lockhart's uncontrollable arrogance. 

Johnny Lockhart looked at the crowd, once again feigning a smile. He looked at the Gryffindor table, as his hands gently flailed, trying to appease them.

"Don't worry, don't worry," he said loudly, not realizing that the entire hall could hear him, "I'm worth two thousand house points by the end of the year."

The laughter got even louder. The Gryffindor Prefect, Mandalev Rostovic, the highest ranking student of their house, stood from the table and approached Lockhart. He held Johnny's arm and forcefully assisted him to their table before he further humiliates himself and their house.

"Charm D'Aurora!" Emerashire shouted next, though the laughter had yet to cease.

As Charm D'Aurora ascended the stage, the laughter did stop. And Gryffindor Solomon knew why. Easily, the girl who was up next for sorting was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen in his young life. Her smooth, long hair was as dark as a moonless night. Her eyes were the color of the bluest skies. Her face conveyed the purity of a garden of flowers during the first days of summer, radiant and blooming and a seeming cradle of dreams. _Charm D'Aurora_, Gryffindor Solomon was enchanted by her name. She needed no education in witchcraft and wizardry. Her grace alone was enough to bewitch the stiffest of hearts. Her name was easy to remember. "Beauty of heaven". For Gryffindor Solomon, she wasn't only the muse of heaven, but of the earth as well. She was the muse of everything.

And everyone seemed to share the same sentiment, as all were cradled to silence by the lovely girl's alluring presence.

D'Aurora placed the Sorting Hat on her head.

__

My oh my, all eyes are on you, it seems

Something not so very new to you, my dear

What with your beauty, many joy it gleams

And your smile that conjures courage from fear

And the coming tale to be told will be written

In tears and sorrow and loss most of all

And you will be there, with your flock so smitten

There, when hope will rise, or when it falls

So where to place you, hmmmm, quite a thought

Though there is but a house where you'll be akin

Where you will reap all that you have sought

Welcome your newest member now, oh…SLYTHERIN!!!

There was a triumphant shout in the Slytherin table, mostly from the boys therein. The other tables were visibly in dismay. And so was Gryffindor Solomon. Having Charm D'Aurora in the same house would have been the perfect set-up for his stay at Hogwarts. She would have been such an inspiration for his studies and his efforts to win house points. But alas, she was sorted to Slytherin, making her virtually out of his reach.

And Charm D'Aurora just smiled as she gracefully walked to the table of her new house, as the other students gave her longing looks, most specially from those in Gryffindor.

"Hey, you still have me," Johnny Lockhart said, but no one paid him any attention.

"Gryffindor Solomon!" Emerashire shouted.

Gryffindor was stunned upon hearing his name. This was the moment he always pictured in his dreams, the moment when he would take the stage to wear the Sorting Hat and lay claim to the destiny he was born with.

The Great Hall fell silent once more, taking interest at the name that was called. _Gryffindor Solomon_. It wasn't hard to deduce why he was named such. Their curiosity has been visibly aroused. 

Gryffindor took a deep breath to contain his excitement. He went up the stage and took his seat. He got the Sorting Hat from Emerashire and placed it on his head. And the Sorting Hat began to hum and sing once more…

__

I am but a hat but I know for certain

Why you were named so since birth

Your resolve is strong and you are driven

Though as of now, you are but dirt

They were insulting lines, but Gryffindor did not care. He particularly liked the "resolve is strong and you are driven" part. Characteristics of a true Gryffindor, he thought.

__

The coming times would be a turning of the page

And you will be in the middle of things, dear boy

And stormy days are ahead to darken the age

But will you be brave enough to foil this ploy?

Of course, Gryffindor wanted to shout. He was brave enough, he believed. He was named after Godric Gryffindor after all. He wanted so much to assure the Sorting Hat, but he thought otherwise. He might offend it, and it might retaliate by placing him in another house.

__

There will be many times for mistakes and lessons learned

There will be many times to prove your stuff…

Gryffindor became jittery. He really wanted to show the Sorting Hat that he would not even make the slightest mistake. He had the mark of Gryffindor! He bore his name!

__

But a name does not make us worthy of all that is yearned

You belong, oh Gryffindor, to the house of…HUFFLEPUFF!!!

The room burst into laughter once more, louder than when Lockhart was sorted to Gryffindor, for this time, even the Hufflepuff students were laughing. It was the irony of ironies. It had the makings of the biggest joke Hogwarts has ever seen. A Gryffindor in the House of Hufflepuff! It would be an entertaining seven years, they all thought with rampant amusement.

In the middle of the laughter, Gryffindor was shocked to silence. He could not believe what he has heard. All his life he believed he would be sorted to Gryffindor, as his name proclaimed. But now, he was in Hufflepuff. Hufflepuff! He recited the house's name over and over, drowning him deeper in disbelief each and every time. He just could not accept what just transpired. What would his parents say? What would his family's friends say? What would their neighborhood say? Johnny Lockhart, a great liar's grandson, was placed in Gryffindor, while he, who carried the mark through his name, was placed in Hufflepuff? He wanted to quit Hogwarts right there and then…

"Mr. Solomon," Professor Emerashire called. But Gryffindor did not notice her. "Mr. Solomon!" she shouted instead, while tapping his shoulders.

Gryffindor was awakened from his shock.

"Mr. Solomon, you are delaying the ceremony," Emerashire said, "take your seat in the table of your new house, Hufflepuff."

Laughter resonated across the Great Hall once more when Emerashire mentioned the name of Hufflepuff. "Change your name to Hufflepuff Solomon!" one upper year student shouted to the screaming delight of the others. Gryffindor slowly stood up from the chair, his head still bowed in disbelief. He started to walk towards his left.

"Mr. Solomon," Emerashire once again called his attention, "the Hufflepuff table is on your right." The laughter grew louder.

Everything was like a blur the moment Gryffindor joined the Hufflepuff table. He was oblivious to everything that occurred thereafter, even to Ontario Wood's welcoming gestures of preparing a seat for him and assisting him in settling down. Various names were called from the scroll that contained the names of first year students. They were sorted to various houses. He somewhat heard the name of three Weasleys, allegedly triplets, who were called one after another, and all were sorted to Gryffindor. Three times then, in succession, the house of Gryffindor was shouted. Why wasn't it shouted when he was being sorted, Gryffindor Solomon questioned? He continued to drown himself in his sorrow, apathetic to everything that transpired, until Professor Emerashire halted the ceremony for an announcement.

"Before we continue with the Sorting Ceremony," she said, "it is with pride and honor that I introduce to you, the new Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry…"

There was a large puff of smoke right behind the chair where the sorting took place. The smell of brimstone. It was no doubt a Zero Level Apparition, the highest form of magical transportation there is. Only the most powerful witches and wizards can achieve such feat and travel great distances with but the mention of two words unknown to magical people of lesser levels.

The students waited with bated breath for the smoke to clear, wanting to have a first look at the new Headmaster of their school. The clouds of Sulphur parted and a figure wearing silver robes laced with striking green and leathery black appeared from the stage. His hair was the color of resplendent white blonde. His gray eyes looked focused. His pointy face of pale complexion showed no traces of delight to be where he was.

"Faculty and students of Hogwarts," Emerashire continued, "welcome our new Head Master… Professor Draco Malfoy!"

The Great Hall was stunned to silence, which immediately dissipated with murmurs growing louder as they spread faster.

And only then did Gryffindor Solomon forget about his sadness, for the announcement was more startling than his recent travesty.

The murmurs abruptly ceased when the new Headmaster began to speak.

"I hope I am not late, Professor Emerashire," he said with a smug smile, "it is not everyday when one can witness a Potter get sorted."


End file.
